


Unwind

by ActuallyAPotato



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Allumare, Art, Failing At Humor, Gen, One Person Is A Pervert, Sith Assassin - Freeform, Sith Pureblood, Sith Trying To Do Something Normal, Someone Being A Creep, Zovereign, awkward times, cursing, help these children, sith sorcerer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAPotato/pseuds/ActuallyAPotato
Summary: Sometimes, it pays off to have a hobby. All Zovereign wants to do is kick back and relax in one of the few ways he knows how- but so much for privacy, huh? Guess it doesn't come with the shiny new title.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, everything I write somehow manages to sound sexual, [at least in my eyes.] I promise you, my little darlings, this is Safe For Work. This man right here, me, is promising you- yes you- that this is A-OK to read in public. Worry not!  
> That being said, this does have some foul language in it, and not of the Star Wars variety. [Kriff, kirffing, etc.] Just a warning! [Also, Allumare is pervert. You have been warned.]

There was always a _surprise_ , a certain **_shock_ ** that went through anyone who witnessed a Sith doing anything deemed " _Unsithlike._ " Be it enjoying a lovely day, or reading a calming novel, or just generally not being a massive  _dick_ to anyone in their general vicinity; people always got shocked, and people always got scared.

"A _Sith_ doing something resembling that of a _**normal sentient being**_?!" They would cry, incredulous, not believing their own eyes, [or whatever else they used to "see" things.] "Impossible!"

And while it certainly entertaining to see, it became much less amusing when those looks of confusion and wonder were aimed at you, things could get awkward  _real fast._ So was it any real surprise that Zovereign preferred keeping some things to himself? [Not in the, "Deep, dark, evil secret" way, but the, "Oh god please don't let anyone ever find out about this or my reputation very well may be fucked" kind of way way. [Actually, it could be argued that those are one and the same, but that is a discussion for another time.]]

"So," You might ask yourselves, arms crossed. "What  _is_ this thing that Zovereign is keeping to himself?" 

Well, unbeknownst to anyone, Zovereign had always loved to draw. Now now- before shouts of disdain and contempt rise- he had a good reason for enjoying art the way he did. A few good reasons in fact, but some that even he himself refused to admit to himself. Complicated past and all that- he had never really come to terms with it. [ _Damn_ his defiant personality, damn it to hell.]

But there was just something so calming about being able to take a thought or feeling from his mind and being able to convert it into an image on a paper or canvas. He was free to interpret it the way he felt was right, and paint it as such as well. He could use whatever materials he desired, and no one could tell him otherwise.  
It was a small but meaningful victory- to be able to carry his own free will over onto something else. No one could tell him what to do in regards to his artwork, and no one ever would be. Even earning the title of "Lord" and no longer being apprenticed to another Sith, there were still shackles chaining him down. At least with this he could feel free for a while.

 But really, if we went any deeper into these deep metaphors and emotional dealings, we'd have to get into Zovereign's head where all his dark thoughts lived. Terrible idea, really. Bit of advice- never do that. Ever. Some had tried, few made it out alive. The assassin understood the importance of having something to hold over one's head, and that was why he never let anyone into his. Some of the things in there really were of the "Deep, dark, evil secret" variety, and he had no desire for those to be known.

The more simple answer would be that no one would ask questions if they never found out, and it was hard to find out about a hobby like this one of you knew how to hide it. Few ripped up papers here and there, some tossed haphazardly in the corner...Really, all you had to do was claim that it was paperwork, and no one would ever question you. [Unlike with  _literally_ everything else.]

If he wanted to unwind by practicing combat techniques? There would be a never ending flow of comments from his allies, not all of which should be heard by sentient ears. [Really, some of them were upright perverse. It was filthy and demeaning.]  
Reading? There would be a barrage of irritating questions that all readers had to face. "What are you reading?" "Book any good?" "Sith...READ? Like, for ** _entertainment_**?!" [Ok, maybe not _everyone_ had to deal with that last one.] Then there was the thing where he was always called out in the middle of a chapter, and god only knew how much he hated leaving off in the middle of a chapter.  
Well, how about sleeping? Nope. Every time he tried to rest, there was some outpost on a backwater planet that just "Desperately and absolutely needed his help or the Empire itself would crumble to pieces!" It was either that or Allumare sneaking into his room, trying to take of his mask while he slept. [Last time they went on an assignment together, the poor assassin hadn't slept for two weeks in a row, only surviving on rage and the strongest coffee he could make without knocking himself out.]

No rest for the wicked, Zovereign supposed. This was the galaxy getting him back for all those lives he'd ended, wasn't it? Damn you, Karma!

Well. Fuck that. He had some spare time, he was alone in his quarters on Dromund Kaas, and he was going to draw if he damn well felt like it. [Of course he hadn't changed out of his battle armor, which comprised of formfitting and thin, but flexible and durable armor plating with an elegant black robe thrown atop it. [Hood included, of course.] Gloves, knee high boots, utility belt, those were pretty standard. It was really the markings on his robe and the easily recognizable mask that made him truly stand out, but that was how he liked it.]  

He took out a simple piece of paper and a pencil, [going old school today, he needed the practice,] sat on the edge of his bed, and began to draw. He started with a few basic lines, not really knowing what he was in the mood for or what he was doing, but as he continued, it began taking the shape of a human eye. Well, might as well make it realistic, he should probably get good at doing that.  
It was easy to lose himself in the basic motions he was making, grip lose, softly shading the lighter parts of the iris. Time passed quickly as he drew, pausing every so often to adjust the paper or scrutinize his work. He had certainly made progress, this was much better then he had been able to do last year. But of course, he would have been a poor artist if he hadn't improved over an entire year. [Or at least a lazy one.]

Zovereign would have continued, had he not heard a knock at his door.

Oh.

Oh there was a person.

Wasn't that nice.

He jumped up, sending the pencil and paper flying to land got knows where on the floor. Forgetting that he'd have to hide them quickly, he panicked, throwing himself against his door in an attempt to hold it shut, and with one hand used the force to shove the drawing and pencil under his bed.

The person at his door paused their assault to ask, "Zovereign? Buddy? Is my favorite Inquisitor home?" He heard a soft chuckle and then, "I really hope nothing _inappropriate_ is happening against that door, 'cause I'm coming in."

Zovereign took a moment to compose himself against his initial panic. So it was only Allumare, one of his frequent work partners. They had teamed up on many occasions in the past years, but he remained cryptic as ever to the assassin. A sadist who enjoyed playing with his victim's minds before ripping them to shreds, but also the most cheerful, loudmouthed, arrogant, perverted, weirdo that he had ever seen.  
Allumare had his layers like anyone, but unlike most others, he had hidden his exceptionally well. No one really knew what he was really like, but no one believed in the cheerful front he put up. [Did they?]

"Oh yes," Zovereign replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because your announcement gives me all the more time to finish, clean, and pretend everything is alright before you come in. But if you really want to know, no, I'm not in right now. Perhaps you should check next door?" It was the typical treatment someone got when speaking to him. All sarcasm, all sardonicism, no verbal mercy.

"And speak to that weird Zabrak dude?" Zovereign heard Allumare scoff behind the door. No doubt the Pureblood thought his noble heritage meant he was too good to mingle with the " _common folk._ " How lovely. "No, I'd much rather speak to someone on my level. But anyway- that wasn't why I came."

"Let me guess- you're drunk and looking for a one night stand despite knowing I would refuse you like I do every time? Really, this is getting quite old." Zovereign smirked under his mask, crossing his arms in amusement as he stared at the blank door, only imagining the look Allumare was sporting.

True to his assumptions, he heard embarrassed spluttering and indignant protest quickly after his comment. "I- Really- That was- I- You- That only happened a few times! I'm **_so sorry_**   that I have a great taste in men!"

"And little to no decency," Zovereign reminded him. "Sorry, but my answer is still no. Hasn't changed in years. Probably never will."

"That wasn't why I came!" Allumare's pout was easily discernible in his words. "Open the door already, I gotta see your face when you hear this."

Zovereign coughed into his hand, and the pureblood gave an exaggerated sigh of exhasperation. "I KNOW you never take the mask off, it was a figure of speech! And in all honesty, your body language says more then your expression ever will."

"Fair claim." The assassin shrugged and unlocked his door, allowing his fellow Sith to enter.

"So- do you remember that mess on-" Allumare started, but his voice trailed off as he allowed his golden eyes to roam the room, finally settling on a piece of paper sticking out from under Zovereign's sheets, penciled drawing just barely visible from the shadow that fell over it.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

The sorcerer's eyes widened in surprise, and he turned them towards the taller Sith, raising an eyebrow as if to ask, " _You drew that? Did you? Holy shit that's good- did you really do that?"_  And in one fluid movement, Zovereign had him pinned to the wall, forearm across his neck, turned from "Friendly" to "Hostile" in a matter of moments. Allumare tried to laugh and form a response, [no doubt he had many,] but the applied pressure to his throat made him cough and choke on any words he tried to form.

"Breathe a word of this to  _anyone,_ " He growled, quick to put his point across. "And I'll personally rip your eyes out with _these_." The assassin held up a gloved hand, armor plates on the fingers curving wickedly to form sharp points at the end of each digit. Claws. Then, as soon as the threat was made, he dropped the Pureblood, who gasped and clutched at throat, as if to make sure it was still there and in one piece.

"You-" Allumare coughed, rubbing his neck, wincing. "You're awfully defensive. Why don't you want this getting out?"

"None of your concern. Now tell me why you came here or get out." Zovereign pointed at the door. The sorcerer by his side gulped and stared at the claws, wondering what they'd feel like, sinking into his eyes. "Not good," he decided, and wisely stopped asking questions.

Zovereign didn't like someone knowing about this. Anyone of lower rank he could of disposed of and claimed an "Unfortunate accident," but not another Lord, not like this. It would be much too obvious. Then there was Allumare being Allumare...He might not have looked like the type, but any information in his hands could easily turn into a deadly weapon, ready to plunge into the target of his choice, and him knowing something that seemed so simple, but meant a lot- it was bad.  
The assassin tried to read Allumare's expression, but he had his grin on, and insisted on holding it.

"Sure, sure...Worry not, no soul shall know of your... _Little secret_." His tone changed on the last two words, the kind of change that would have made lesser Sith cower. Zovereign merely glared. The Pureblood pretended not to notice as he smirked and pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "It's a good thing you're in combat gear, we're wanted again on...er...Was it Belsavis? Or maybe Alderaan? I forget."

"Your stupidity astounds me," Zovereign muttered, knowing full well that it was an act. Louder, he said, "So if we go to the wrong planet, I demand Punching Rights."

"Oh, come on!" Allumare protested. "Blame Vell'ar for making it so hard to understand! He's always so cryptic and- and _ **weird**..._ Besides, Punching Rights? Really? We came up with that  _years_ ago!"

"And I still hold you to it," The assassin confirmed.

"You would punch Pureblood nobility in the face?" Allumare asked skeptically, crossing his arms.

"Punched a Darth in the face once." It was all the answer he needed.

The sorcerer snorted. "How are you alive again?"

"The power of cynical sarcasm," Zovereign replied. "That and the Overseer liked me." That in itself was a strange fact, because most Imperials in power hated Zovereign's "I don't give a shit about you or your position, so shove your power up your ass, you're getting no respect from me" rebellious attitude. [Or as Zovereign himself liked to call it, his "Freedom streak."]

"Why am I not surprised?" Allumare asked himself aloud. "Anyone, we need to get going. Who knows HOW grumpy Vell'ar will get if we show up any later then we already are?"

Zovereign nodded. It was an unspoken rule among the people who knew Vell'ar, that you were never to be late when dealing with him, or his nagging could very literally take your ear off. [Zav-Al insisted that it had taken one of his Lekku, but everyone knew that he had done it to himself. Why, no one could fathom.]   
He ushered his "guest" out the door and locked it behind them, then began walking towards the spaceport. Noticing that he wasn't being followed, he turned to see what the holdup was.

He saw Allumare spaced out, with a thoughtful look on his face, and a grin that was very near predatory. Then, slowly, his eyes locked on to where Zovereign's would have been, had they not been obscured by the mask, and his grin widened. He walked over and clapped his partner on the shoulder, and in a tone that was devoid of all false amusement he usually pumped into it, said, "Pleasure learning something new."

The way he said it made a shiver run down the assassin's spine, and when he tilted his head in silent question, the only answer he got was, "Never know when such a thing could be... _useful._ Especially to someone who deals in an area like mine." 

A threat, then.

As he watched Allumare stride off, all egotistical and smiles again, he shivered once more and wondered if it was too late in life to become religious and pray.  


End file.
